


You OK, Buddy?

by mightbeanasshole



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: M/M, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 16:18:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4311981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbeanasshole/pseuds/mightbeanasshole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael dry heaves. Geoff is vaguely turned on. Geoff hates himself. We all hate ourselves. Welcome to vomfic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You OK, Buddy?

“Michael?”

Geoff pushes the door open to the work bathroom, sticking his head through the doorway but not stepping in.

“Yeah,” Michael says. His voice is coming from a weird angle from the last stall. Geoff steps in. The bathroom is empty other than the two of them. Everyone’s gone for the day, and it’s the last spot Geoff thought to check before abandoning his plans with Michael.

“We still grabbing that drink or…?”

Michael doesn’t answer.

“I thought you fuckin’ ditched me,” Geoff says, laughing a little, weirdly nervous now that Michael isn’t saying anything. “I couldn’t find you anywhere.”

Michael makes a small noise, halfway between a groan and a hiccup. Geoff stoops to peer under the stall partitions and catches the sight of Michael’s jeans-clad knees on the floor, his feet pointed towards the stall door.

“Fuck, you ok buddy?” He’s already walking towards the last stall where Michael is–the big handicapped stall with the weird chair for no reason.

“Yeah I’m–” Michael starts, sounding pathetic, but his explanation is interrupted again by the hiccup. Then silence.

“You need–” Geoff starts to ask, but Michael cuts him off, sounding panicked.

“Yeah, no, don’t come in,” he says. Another hiccup, and then Michael dissolves into coughing.

“Right, fuck that,” Geoff says. He tests the door to the stall and it swings open.

Michael is crumpled around the toilet, his spine in an awkward “S”, head propped on his hands over the bowl.

“I’m cool–it’s cool,” Michael says, not turning to look at him. He’s a little out of breath.

“Like shit you’re cool,” Geoff says. And as if on cue, Michael is hiccuping again. It’s clear now that the sad little noise is the vocal component of a dry heave as Geoff watches Michael give into a spasm. It seems to travel from the bottom of his body to the top as his legs go stiff, sneakers sliding a little over the tiles and failing to find purchase. His back curves and strains in convulsion, and Michael slaps his hands down to grab the toilet seat as if the whole earth has upended and the seat is the only thing keeping him moored.

The spasms wrack through him once, then silence. Then again–and again the hiccup, Michael’s head drooping. It produces nothing, and Michael waits for a moment, straining there in case a third wave hits him. Nothing must come because all at once he’s slumping back down.

Geoff started to move somewhere between the first and second heave, and he finds himself squatting there next to Michael. Before he’s even realized what he’s doing, Geoff has a hand at the base of Michael’s skull and another steadying him at the hip.

“Geoff…” It’s almost a protest, but the weak sound does nothing to persuade Geoff to leave.

“Hey buddy,” Geoff says with a soft voice usually reserved for hurt baby animals.

Michael looks up finally, his arms not leaving the safety of the toilet seat.

Michael puking is certainly not a rare occasion at the office. It is, in fact, encouraged. Celebrated. Hell, it was essentially a fundraiser at one point. So Geoff is familiar with the show that goes along with it: Michael’s eyes watering as he smiles and coughs triumphantly.

There’s no element of showmanship here, though. Michael looks feeble–his eyes heavy-lidded–and he’s obviously been at this a while because there’s a sheen of sweat across his face. A few curls are plastered to his forehead and, not knowing what else to do, Geoff gently pushes the hair out of his face. Michael must go dizzy because he wavers a little, leans into the touch, and lets some of the weight of his body fall against Geoff as he gets more comfortable on the tile. Waiting for the next wave of nausea, Geoff expects.

“So I take it that’s a no on the drinks,” Geoff says.

“Christ, Geoff, I can’t stop… fuckin’ heaving,” Michael whines. “There’s nothin’ left to puke.”

Michael looks like he’s going to cry and he shuts his eyes against the tears. Geoff’s been there: exhausted, weirdly emotional, wanting nothing than your body to just stop betraying you. He runs a hand through his employee’s hair again, not sure what else to do but still barely able to ignore the fact that he’s being granted temporary permission to do what he finds himself daydreaming about at least a hundred times a day.

Chill out, Geoff, he tells himself. Not the time to enjoy this.

“Think you have a bug or something?” he asks.

“I mean I guess–I don’t understand what else–” and a wave hits him again.

Michael scrambles away from Geoff, grabbing and heaving himself up and over the toilet bowl. His forearms strain with the exertion, sneakers squeaking sadly behind them, and he almost hits his chin against the porcelain. Geoff grabs him by the hips, hitching Michael up a few more inches so the kid doesn’t chip a goddamn tooth. It’s just instinct to help, but Geoff also can’t control himself from instantly cataloguing the sensation of his hands on Michael’s hips, the circumference of Michael’s frame, the surprisingly little amount of effort it takes for Geoff to move him around. Exhausted, Michael lets himself be helped as he hiccups and retches.

The broken noises Michael makes–his quivering breaths, his helpless whimpering–should be anything but erotic. Geoff couldn’t hate himself more for the fact that there’s something dark inside of his brain that is quietly memorizing every minute of this.

This wave lasts longer but the kid must really be empty. Michael’s stomach tries to wring something out of him, and the waves of tension move through his body once, twice, three times. Geoff watches Michael’s back as the muscles go taut and flex under his thin shirt, stretched tight against the exertion. Michael moans and whines into the bowl, miserable.

Geoff’s half hard. He feels like a monster.

He can see the bumps of Michael’s spine, and as he curls over the bowl in one last heave, Geoff can even see the pattern of Michael’s ribcage pressed up through the fabric.

And in addition to the fact that Geoff’s body has already thoroughly betrayed him, the sight of Michael in such a pathetic, helpless state makes something in Geoff’s chest flop, like he’s missed the last step in a flight of stairs. If every shred of Geoff that feels compelled to protect Michael wasn’t already awakened, it’s sure as hell wide awake now. Geoff feels like he’d fight a fucking army with his bare hands if it meant Michael could stop heaving, but the feeling gets him nowhere. He can’t make Michael stop.

And instead, as Michael slumps again, the weird energy in Geoff manifests as a lowering of boundaries–even as he wars with himself over his own mixed reaction to finding Michael here, like this. Geoff’s hands are all over now, smoothing Michael’s shirt, pushing his hair this way and that, rubbing his shoulders in a way that he hopes is soothing and not irritating, insisting to himself that he’s not being handsy and taking advantage of the situation–just trying to help his friend.

“What can I do, Michael?”

Michael doesn’t even look up this time. When he speaks, his voice sounds ruined.

“Don’t leave me?”

Geoff puffs a laugh through his nose. Christ, the thought hadn’t even occurred to him.

“Yeah, no, of course not,” Geoff says. One hand rubs his neck slowly. Michael’s hair is softer than he’d imagined.

—

It goes on like this for another 10 minutes: Michael dry heaving, Geoff wrestling with whatever horrific thing he’s just discovered about himself. Michael produces a little bile, but he’s probably cried more fluid than he’s puked since Geoff arrived.

“I think I’m done,” Michael says quietly, finally. He’s had a solid five minute run with no heaving.

“Do you want me to drive you home?” Geoff asks. His hand is planted solidly on Michael’s back. The kid has sweated through his shirt and he’s clammy under Geoff’s touch.

“I don’t–I can’t… I don’t want to think about being in a car right now,” Michael says. “I need the room to stop spinning first.”

“Yeah, ok,” Geoff says. “No rush, alright. But, uh. Let’s get off the bathroom floor.”

Every point of contact between Geoff’s body and the hard tile is aching. He’s not cut out for sitting on the floor like this anymore. He pushes up and away, joints popping in protest, and Michael looks up almost half panicked at the sudden loss of contact.

“Hey, you’re ok,” Geoff says, bending at the knee and offering his hand. Michael takes it, and Geoff grabs him by the other elbow, too, as he hoists his employee up. Michael is wobbly at first, letting his weight fall against Geoff. Geoff navigates them towards the front of the bathroom where he runs some cool water. Michael cups his palms under the water, sipping from his hands and washing out his mouth before he scrubs his whole face. Geoff stays close, a hand on the small of Michael’s back.

After a minute, he sways and turns to Geoff.

“Think you can make it to our office?” Geoff asks.

“No,” Michael says, his eyes half-lidded. “I’m gonna live out the rest of my days here in the bathroom.”

“Don’t make me carry your scrawny ass like a baby,” Geoff warns. Michael leans against him and he sighs an almost silent laugh.

“Swaddle me, daddy.”

Geoff rolls his eyes and takes Michael by the shoulders again.

“Come on,” Geoff says.

They make their way slowly towards the office. Geoff’s never encountered Michael so weak. The younger man tries to play it off, attempting to chat and joke, but halfway there, he stumbles a little over his own feet and Geoff feels Michael take a fistful of the back of his t-shirt. Michael doesn’t let go, anchoring himself with the garment, and Geoff doesn’t mind that he’s probably stretching his favorite shirt out all to shit as they walk hip to hip towards the office.

Finally he plants Michael down onto the office couch. Michael slumps slowly until he’s in the fetal position across the cushions. He kicks his shoes onto the floor and closes his eyes.

“We need to get some Gatorade in you,” Geoff says, kneeling by the couch with a hand on Michael’s shoulder.

“Fuck you, Geoff,” Michael croaks, not opening his eyes. “I’m not ingesting anything. Ever.”

“It’s that or an IV,” Geoff says. “I’m not above taking you to the ER if you’re gonna be a brat about it.”

“Just give me a second,” Michael says. “My body just tried to turn itself inside out. I need a break. Please?”

“Fair enough,” Geoff says, standing and moving towards his desk chair.

“I didn’t say leave.”

Geoff turns and sighs.

“What, do you want me to spoon you ‘till you feel better?” he says, rolling his eyes. Michael squints at him from the couch.

“Yes.”

“Michael–”

“You’d spoon Gavin,” Michael says weakly. “Don’t be a dick.” He presses his eyes closed again and curls in on himself.

Geoff can’t really argue with that. He slips his shoes off and returns to the couch, arranging cushions to make room for himself behind Michael.

“If this gives me a boner, just remember that you’re the one who asked for this.”


End file.
